


Red

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl and Beth get trapped in town during a supply run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Four. The group has escaped Terminus and reunited with Beth. Written for tumblr's Bethyl Week, Day Two. Prompt: "red"
> 
> * * *

Daryl does a final sweep of the lower floor before taking the stairs two at a time, emerging into a hallway inset with a tall, narrow window. There's no reason to expect the walkers to look up, but he still eases the curtain back carefully before peering down into the backyard. At least a dozen walkers milling around the ornamental fountain, another couple by the fence. He curses under his breath before letting the curtain twitch back into place. 

So much for a quick dash into town for supplies. 

He finds Beth perched on the end of the bed in what was probably the master bedroom, if a house this small could consider it such. Barely enough room for a double bed and a dresser, both now covered with a thick layer of dust. He leans against the doorframe, watches as Beth's fingers flit among the bottles and knick-knacks on the dresser, first lighting on a ceramic figurine of a small dog before smoothing along the edge of a tarnished silver box. Her touch is delicate, same as it is on the piano keys. Same as when she runs the tips of her fingers down his arm, making all the hairs there stand up at attention. Making him shudder no matter how much he tries to hide it.

She does this, he's noticed, every time they stop for a night or two. Like maybe she can learn something about the people who lived here by touching their things, framed photos or alarm clocks or DVDs lined on a shelf. Maybe she brings the people to life again, somehow, by imagining them throwing back the covers at the beep of the alarm to go for an early morning jog or curled up on the sofa watching _Home Alone_ for the fifteenth time.

"Find anything?" Daryl asks.

His voice is soft but Beth jerks anyway, meets his eyes in the mirror. She lifts a shoulder, her roaming hands drifting to her lap. "Looks like they had time to pack," she answers quietly. "The dresser drawers are empty, closets all cleared out. I was hopin' we could find somethin' warmer for Tara, but…"

"Kitchen's wiped out, too," he says. "Guess it's cold corn for supper."

She shrugs. "We’ve had worse."

He wonders if she's remembering the mud snake, the coarse greasy taste of it. He remembers the way she picked at it daintily, wiping her fingers on her jeans after every pass. Back when he wondered how such a fussy woman was ever gonna make it. Back before he knew that she had steel in her spine.

"Still lots of walkers outside?" 

"Enough," Daryl says. The ones hanging out in the backyard are worry enough; no reason to tell her about the group of them lingering out front by the stop sign even though there ain't a damn thing to keep them there. They'll likely all be gone in the morning. And if not, they'll deal with 'em then. "Oughta be fine here long as we keep quiet."

She turns toward him then, tucks her leg beneath her. "I hope Maggie's not worried. All of them," she corrects, "but Maggie especially."

He opens his mouth to tell her that Maggie's had to get used to a lot of things, not the least of which is that her sister ain't no prissy little wallflower and can take care of her own self. And maybe to remind her that it's kind of his duty to take care of her, too. But the words die in his throat when he sees the slash of red on her lips.

"Daryl?"

He watches her lips form the syllables of his name and tries to force himself to look up, to meet her eyes. But he's transfixed by her mouth; the dark red colour on her lips making her skin appear paler, the hair trailing along her neck more golden. All he can see in his mind's eye is crossing the room, tumbling her back onto the bed and taking her lips with his, licking her mouth open and tasting the thick, waxy sheen of the lipstick on his tongue. The image is so vivid that he takes a single, halting step into the room before he manages to stop himself. 

"Oh," she says. She blinks, eyes wide; scrambles for the edge of the blanket to scrub it across her lips. "I was just… it was stupid. I saw the lipstick there and… I guess I just wanted to feel pretty again."

Daryl shakes his head, forces himself to look away from the pink flush on her cheeks, from the smear of scarlet on the white blanket. He swallows dryly, hitches his crossbow further onto his back to give himself something to do with his hands, and tries to remember what the hell they were talking about.

"Daryl?"

"Maggie'll be fine," he manages to grunt out. He shifts again, juts his chin toward the door. "Think we should spend the night in the other bedroom. Farther from the street, less likely for any of them geeks to hear us."

"Sure," she says.

Her ponytail bobs when she nods, and suddenly he can't look away from the way her hair curls at the nape of her neck, from the swing of her braid. He wants to tug out that hair tie and run his fingers through her hair, kiss that spot behind her ear that makes her wiggle and squirm. He wants to tell her that she takes his breath away, that she couldn't look more beautiful to him than she does this very minute, covered in dirt and old stains and sweat. But once again he's paralyzed, his vocal chords crippled, and all he can do is watch her uncurl from the bed and rise, sling her backpack over one shoulder.

She ducks her head as she squeezes past him. "You hungry? I can sneak downstairs for some plates."

"Hmm," he says. He thinks Tara might have shoved some plates in with their emergency supplies before they left, cutlery too, but he can't remember. He can't remember anything because all he can focus on is Beth walking out the door, head down and avoiding his eyes, and how somehow he's managed to fuck this up even though he doesn't quite know how, and how he doesn't deserve a girl like her if he can't open his own damn mouth and tell her so. "Beth?" 

She turns, one hand on the doorframe, eyebrows raised. 

"Don't need no lipstick to look pretty," he says softly.

When she smiles it's like a two ton weight has been lifted from his chest, like the sun came out from behind a cloud. And when she goes up on tiptoe to press her lips to his cheek Daryl reminds himself that he needs to speak up more often. Then she is brushing past him to walk back into the room, her fingers skimming against his chest and sending a shiver down his spine. She reaches for the tube of lipstick, those nimble fingers tucking it easily into the front pocket of her jeans.

She wiggles her eyebrows at him as she heads back out into the hall. "For later," she says.


End file.
